


Five Times Anthony J. Crowley Tried To Propose

by Davechicken, Magical_Bucket



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Art and Text, Background Relationships, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:01:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23822017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magical_Bucket/pseuds/Magical_Bucket
Summary: He's a hot mess. His angel is too.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 21
Kudos: 99





	Five Times Anthony J. Crowley Tried To Propose

**Attempt #1**

Crowley knew that Aziraphale read, and read voraciously. And that he was - at heart - the most sentimental creature ever to grace the earth. 

So of course he would know all about flower languages. Of course he would. They were documented plenty (even though Crowley pretended he did not read, he knew Aziraphale had seen right through that). 

Which meant every bouquet of flowers he brought him had been carefully crafted with a detailed message. Things he couldn’t say aloud, but which he could convey in the number, colour, and bloom he bundled up in ribbons and paper. 

(Although the longer the tradition of giving them continued, the more he worried it could no longer be passed off as - er - anything other than what it truly was. And as the angel always cooed happily over his offerings…)

So this time, as he held the simple spray of a dozen red roses (for true love, and with the simple ‘be mine’ message), he could feel every inch of his gastro-intestinal tract. He wavered, sure of the question, but unsure of the response. It was simple. Stark. Bold. 

He handed over the bouquet, cowering behind his dark glasses, and waited for the answer.

“Oh, these are ever so lovely… hmm, a little smaller than you usually get, I’ll need the thinner vase…”

Crowley’s heart fell. It was… it was too fast, again, wasn’t it? He smiled without lips and mumbled something and the alcohol back in the flat trebled. He’d need it later.

***

**Attempt #2**

If flowers were his forte (and he was still somewhat aggrieved that the angel didn’t like them as much, being as they met in a bloody garden), then food was Aziraphale’s.

Fine. He would talk his language.

Crowley scoured the world for the most fitting and auspicious of showing his intent to be a good (or, er, ‘decent’) spouse. 

China had some of the most intricate food-based traditions for proposals, and Aziraphale liked Eastern foods, so the demon locked himself in his kitchen and slaved away with recipe books and arcane skills. He could have just bought them, but you didn’t buy love, and he was going to show he was serious. 

First was the not-quite aptly named ‘wife cake’ (lou po beng) filled with winter melon. Then the red, yellow and white twill cakes (much prettier), with love (not an issue), successfulness of the suitor and blessings from above (let’s just glide over that) and fertility. He wasn’t really looking to have many sons, but - well - it could be metaphorical? And there was red beans, mung beans, and lotus seeds. Not his idea of tasty, but Aziraphale did like weird things.

Finally, the daai daan gou, the ‘big cake’ cupcake, shaped like an eight-petal lotus. (So it had flowers again. Sue him.) It was simple, and solid, and pretty. And he was happy with that. 

So, too, was Aziraphale. He devoured them all eagerly, wondering at the flavours, the fine work of the chef, and never once indicating that he understood the significance.

Crowley was beginning to think he was being let down very gently.

Or that he wasn’t trying hard enough.

***

**Attempt #3**

Food was a failure. Fine.

Books.

Blasted angel liked books.

Crowley found a shitty book as a sacrifice. (Not hard, loads of those about.) And researched what books the angel really did like. This was more difficult, because ‘yes’ was not an adequate answer. He had so many interests that it became dizzying.

He finally settled on the right one, and was sniffing at a shelf to get the right feel and idea so he could make a mock cover for the interior donor, when he heard the screech from a few rows over.

“Who would do that?”

“What?”

Shit. He’d left his laptop on, hadn’t he? It probably had the instructions on hollowing out a book to make a secret compartment visible. 

“That precious baby! To gut it like that! Oh, what a waste! It’s even worse than burning or pulping! And to pretend it is still fine - Crowley! I am upset!”

Crowley pushed his head into the soft spines in front of him. He really was cursed.

***

**Attempt #4**

This time he may - may - have been a little drunk. And he may have been watching dumb movies. Soppy shit. And.

Maybe, standing outside the shop window like a post-modern-ironic-Romeo with a boom-box (several decades too late, and far too white) on his shoulder wasn’t… really the best of ideas.

He’d even picked up a fresh tape and carried it with him on foot so it wouldn’t ever enter the Bentley. And he’d picked out a track that was perfect. And he stared up at the angel’s window, ready to perform some minor, demonic miracle and--

“What _is_ that awful caterwauling?” 

Aziraphale did not look seduced. Or amused. Or even neutral. He looked apoplectic, and as far from angelic as you could be, without - you know - being a demon. 

“Sweet music?” Crowley asked, realising he was slurring rather a lot. The Dutch courage had turned his speech to Double Dutch. 

“Turn it off, you are making a scene.”

He dropped the boom-box. And went to find more alcohol.

***

**Attempt #5**

Aziraphale liked the Ritz. He had been harping on about it for literally decades. He loved eating there, loved being _seen_ to be eating there, and loved - basically - it. 

He loved so many bloody things. Why he couldn’t extend the courtesy one step further…

He’d taken the absolute most precautions he could. Spoken to the staff. Worked on the cues. Come up with contingencies. Designed it all to the last detail.

Aziraphale ordered the right dessert.

Aziraphale waited for the right dessert.

One of the waiting staff had an accident, after a small child ran after what they mistakenly thought was a dog. 

Aziraphale did not know this. Crowley did not know this. 

The couple who received the next available dessert of the right kind did not know this.

The gentleman dining with his girlfriend did not know this. When he cut into his cake and found an engagement ring, he laughed, and said yes. 

The girlfriend was rather surprised to find that the dessert had a) proposed for her and b) provided a free and expensive-looking ring and c) that the gentleman not only wasn’t offended by the presumption, but was also in favour. 

The cooing and support from everyone around drowned out her protestations that she hadn’t put it there, but she was glad it was, and would he actually?

(They did, eight months later, and lived happily ever after. Aziraphale knew, because he checked up on them.)

Crowley nearly ate a fork. 

***

**Attempt #5.1**

“It was rather romantic,” Aziraphale said, sighing dreamily as they got the bill.

“Mnnh.”

“I mean, I would be afraid I would choke on it, so perhaps it would not have been ideal for me.”

“Mnnh.” Oh, good.

“But the idea is so very sweet. It’s all incredibly romantic, don’t you think? And the bravery to do it in public, where the answer could so easily lead to horrific embarrassment!”

Discorporeate me now.

Crowley skulked after him, out into the early evening air. The light was clinging to lamposts as if too shy to go further, and the rumble of the city was muted, but there. 

He heard the clearing throat, and looked down at the hand held out for his. It would be very childish of him to refuse, so he stuck his own out, but made sure Aziraphale did the final bit. 

“It is a bit… magical. But I would prefer something a bit more intimate.”

He said ‘magical’ in that tone of voice - overly-done and almost too-camp - that made Crowley’s head turn, just as their fingers locked and their palms met.

Met… around something.

Something small, and metal, and warm. Warm, as if kept pressed against the body for some time. 

His eyes flicked to the angel’s little finger, and he saw the ring there had been removed. So that was what was being held between them.

Wait… did he--?

“It isn’t exactly how I daydreamed about it, but--” Aziraphale’s cheeks were rosy, and his eyes so full of hope and longing that it was painful to witness. “I could make it disappear…?”

“Make you disappear if you do,” he groused, and squeezed his hand as hard as he could, so he knew the metal band was still there. “You - you mean it?”

“Most assuredly I do.”

Crowley did not cry. Not even a little. 

But he did kiss his newly betrothed rather a lot.

At least now, they could shop for rings together.


End file.
